


The Mrs. Robinson Affair

by renn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:21:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renn/pseuds/renn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solo and Kuryakin take to higher education to stop Angelique and her latest Thrush-centric plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wrapped Around Her Finger

**Author's Note:**

> Written for wendiez for the Down the Chimney Affair #8 (2011). Prompts: episode-related, Illya-centric, Angelique

Despite his reputation, Illya Kuryakin actually had no qualms about mixing business with pleasure... sometimes. Oh, sure, he knew (and disapproved of) several agents who thought nothing of schtupping some femme fatale in the middle of an assignment. Still others furthered their private knick-knack collections while they furthered the cause of the U.N.C.L.E. Mr. Havistock, out of the Geneva office, made a habit of bringing home a bottle of wine from every destination he reported to. And Miss Dancer... she never met a boutique she didn’t like. (At least she saved most of her shopping for after the assignment ended.) Even his own partner was guilty of the odd purchase in the middle of a mission. Kuryakin, though, only combined an assignment with... a meal. Preferably a meal in an automat.  
  
This particularly balmy May afternoon, he savored Horn and Hardart’s finest baked beans, sliced roast beef, and peach cobbler while observing a conversation two tables over. A young couple shared some macaroni and cheese, heads nearly touching as they alternated eating and chatting. The girl-- Suri Polat, a final year student at the United Nations International School (UNIS) and only child of the U.N. Ambassador for Turbakistan-- didn’t look particularly happy. Her frown deepened as her boyfriend whispered something in her ear. He stood, brushed his lips against the top of her head, and approached the automat’s vending wall. Suri, back to him, picked resolutely at the mac and cheese.  
  
The boy-- young man, really-- studied several columns’ worth of delectable food resting behind little glass doors before offering up his nickels for a piece of chocolate cake and a triangular carton of milk. He brought both back to Suri, placing them in front of her like an offering. She brightened immediately and dug into the cake. It all seemed the picture of innocence.  
  
Kuryakin knew better. He knew that the young man had been recruited by Thrush, no doubt to get Suri to defect. Defection was all the rage these days, ever since Svetlana Alliluyeva jumped the Motherland ship in India the previous year. Suri, being young and idealistic and exposed to alternatives, had a greater than average chance at defecting, and damn the consequences to her family, her uncle the Premier, and Turbakistan as a whole. The lure of a boy seemingly interested in her as a person simply iced the cake.  
  
U.N.C.L.E. knew all about the boy; in fact, Napoleon had been assigned to be his new guidance counselor at the Borough of Manhattan Community College. Young Mr. Benjamin Harper, despite several generations’ worth of Legacy and despite his family’s booming plastics business, had high school grades so poor he was denied admission into Columbia University. Not wanting to go to Vietnam, he enrolled at the community college, where he made mediocre grades and harbored a growing resentment about his situation. His attitude made him an obvious pick to be Thrush’s inside man (so to speak).  
  
As far as Solo could determine, Benjamin thought he had a secret “in” to Columbia, and thus didn’t particularly care about his grades at the community college. Benjamin seemed a nice enough sort, despite the collegiate chip on his shoulder, so the fact he had taken up with Thrush seemed quite curious indeed. Kuryakin elected to help keep an eye on the couple, in addition to his duties as the substitute French teacher at UNIS. After all, many faculty, like the Upper School students, came to the automat after school for a snack. His appearance would be unremarkable.  
  
Suri pushed the cake plate away from her, opened the milk carton, and chugged it. She wiped her mouth off on her blouse, giggling because she knew it was exactly the wrong thing to do. Benjamin extended his hand; Suri grabbed it, and swinging it hard back and forth, lead him out of the building.  
  
Kuryakin continued eating. The back-up team would take over, and follow them wherever they chose to go. He could finish off the peach cobbler in peace, and then---  
  
“Do you do nothing but eat?”  
  
Illya glanced up. Angelique slithered into a seat across from him, oozing her particular brand of tainted charm as she eyed the cobbler. “That’s going to go straight to your hips,” she added in mock concern. “We wouldn’t want a fat U.N.C.L.E. agent, would we?” She grabbed the plate from him, holding it just out of his reach.  
  
Given the choice between drawing attention to themselves and suffering through a no-doubt tedious gloating session, Illya merely blinked. “I thought Thrush would welcome an advantage like that.”  
  
“We don’t need manufactured advantages. We’re naturally superior.”  
  
“You stick to that story.”  
  
“Oh, I will.” She leaned in closer; Illya could clearly see hints of dark roots in her bleached hair and fine lines on her overly-made-up face. “Suri Polat _will_ defect, and that _will_ cause the overthrow of the Turbakistan government, and that _will_ allow Thrush to install a puppet dictator of its own before the Soviets get a chance.”  
  
“You’ll forgive me if I remain doubtful.”  
  
She smiled then, the cat licking the cream off her whiskers. “Benjamin Harper is wrapped around my little finger, Mr. Kuryakin. He’ll get Miss Polat to do our bidding--”  
  
“--or die trying.”  
  
Angelique pouted. “Oh, do you _always_ have to make Thrush sound so _violent?_ The ends justifies the means. You should know that. U.N.C.L.E. is just as guilty of it as we are.” She shoved the cobbler back at him. “You’re a poor conversationalist, darling. Ta-ta.” Standing, she gave him a little wave before sashaying out of the automat.  
  
Kuryakin sighed. Angelique’s involvement made the assignment much more complicated. Still, it wasn’t enough to put him off his dessert. He dug back into the cobbler, chewing thoughtfully.  
  
*****  
  
“Angelique?” Alexander Waverly frowned. “That certainly puts a different spin on things, gentlemen.” He glanced across the table at his top agents. “Thoughts?”  
  
“She must be awfully confident, if she’s bragging to Mr. Kuryakin,” Napoleon Solo concluded. “Usually she saves bragging to that extreme for the bedroom.”  
  
Kuryakin raised an eyebrow at that remark-- he didn’t believe for one minute that his partner slept with her just for the pillow talk. “Nevertheless, she’s confirmed several things we already suspected. They plan on establishing their own government in Turbakistan, they plan on doing it through Miss Polat’s defection, and that Mr. Harper is definitely on their payroll.”  
  
“I still don’t think Mr. Harper knows what he’s doing, not completely,” Solo countered. “He’s a nice enough boy, but really isn’t the sharpest tack in the box. His arrogance more than makes up for his intelligence, though. He’d be taking out an ad in the paper if he thought he had a ‘getcha’ way into Columbia.”  
  
“Angelique said she had him wrapped around her finger.”  
  
Solo’s mouth wrinkled in distaste. “I don’t think she’s sleeping with him, if that’s what you mean.”  
  
Kuryakin raised a shoulder, partially apologizing as he shrugged. “We have to consider every possibility, you know.”  
  
“I know, I know.”  
  
“Gentlemen,” Waverly harumphed, “Private activities interest U.N.C.L.E. not in the least. What interests us is keeping peace in Turbakistan. With so many other Eastern Bloc countries in turmoil....”  
  
“Yes, sir. Mr. Kuryakin and I will continue observing and interacting with our subjects, and we will get to the bottom of things before Thrush can.”  
  
“Good, good.” Waverly turned toward his humidor, dismissing his agents.  
  
Solo and Kuryakin left the office. A jerk of the head and a countering swift nod had them agreeing on going to Solo’s office. Once inside the rather utilitarian space, Solo shut the door, then perched on the edge of his desk as his partner sat. “That was a low blow, bringing sex into the assignment.”  
  
“No worse that what Angelique herself does.”  
  
“Yes, but--”  
  
“Sorry, Napoleon-- she nearly threw me off my feed, that’s all. I like it better when she drops off the odd rude comment in passing.”  
  
“Well, you aren’t much of a conversationalist.”  
  
“That’s what she said.”  
  
Solo chuckled.  
  
“But seriously, Napoleon-- you know her better as an agent than I do. _Could_ she be plying the boy with sex?”  
  
The senior agent contemplated it for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. At least not yet. I’m sure she has it as a back-up plan, should he stop cooperating with her, though. Since we now know that she’s his contact, that makes things easier.”  
  
“Or harder. Unlike many of her fellow feathered friends, she’s tricky.”  
  
“Angelique still has certain scams she likes to run, though. And since she’s dealing with such a young man, she’s going to be almost too confident that she can manipulate him through her not-inconsiderable womanly charms.”  
  
“Could we play that game? Perhaps send Miss Dancer in?”  
  
Napoleon shook his head. “April’s in Copenhagen right now. No, I think we’re going to have to play it by ear. I have another meeting with Benjamin tomorrow morning-- we have to go over his Columbia application again. I’ll see if I can pump anything out of him.”  
  
“It’s going to be small group work in Le Cours de Francais tomorrow, so I’ll be circulating around pretending not to listen in on various conversations.”  
  
“Well, it’s something. If we don’t get much further by this time tomorrow, we’ll have to become... aggressive... in our tasks.”  
  
“Agreed.” Illya stood. “Dinner?”  
  
“Didn’t you just eat like 4 hours ago?”  
  
The Russian shrugged. “A mere after-school snack.”  
  
“Tito’s?”  
  
“Oh, not Italian tonight. Wong Fu’s?”  
  
“Don’t eat all the crab rangoon this time.”  
  
“If you insist.” Kuryakin let his partner lead the way out of the office.  
  
****  
  
The following morning, Napoleon looked every inch the community college guidence counselor-- from tweed jacket, to bow tie, to horn-rimmed glasses-- as he welcomed Benjamin Harper into his office. After motioning him to sit, he asked, “Have you brought your revised essay?”  
  
Benjamin rolled his eyes. “No. I told you before, Mr. Duggar, I got it covered. Doesn’t matter what I write, or what my grades are, I’m getting into Columbia.”  
  
“And that explains why you’ve spent the last year here.”  
  
“Misunderstanding or something. Look, do we _really_ have to go through all the ‘your grades stink and your attitude’s worse’ bull pucky?Trust me on this. I’m getting in.”  
  
Solo leaned back in his chair, playing with a pen idly. “Your grades and attitude don’t match your claims, Benjamin. But, tell you what, you tell me exactly what your ‘in’ is and I’ll shut up about grades and everything else. Deal?”  
  
“Well--”  
  
“1.93 GPA, Benjamin. And those are all in remedial classes.”  
  
“Oh, all right.” Benjamin looked furitively around the room, then leaned over the desk. “Have you ever heard of an organization called the U.N.C.L.E.?”  
  
Solo’s gut clenched; he least expected the name of his organization to come up in conversation. Outwardly, he remained the picture of calm. “It’s some sort of philanthropic organization, isn’t it?”  
  
“Oh, it’s more than that. Much more. They do spy stuff.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really! And, well, I’m working for them.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Why is that so hard to believe? I’m intelligent, I’m well-connected, naturally they would want me involved.”  
  
“All right.”  
  
“There’s this girl, you see, who’s the daughter of some Eastern Bloc ambassador, and they want me to, well, befriend her, get her to see the benefits of coming over to the West.”  
  
“Do I really want to know this?”  
  
Benjamin’s eyes widened. “Um... no? Okay, you didn’t hear that.”  
  
“Probably best if you don’t tell your contact about this conversation.”  
  
“Good idea! Mrs. Robinson would be really angry with me.”  
  
Solo had to fight laughing over the name. “Thanks for telling me, Benjamin. I’m sure with U.N.C.L.E.’s help you’ll get into Columbia without any problems.”  
  
“Glad you finally see it my way, Mr. Dugger.”  
  
“Still... you should make _some_ effort at improving your grades. For form and all that.”  
  
“Nyah, it’s all too easy for me. Why should I bother working when it’s simple? No return, you know what I mean?” Benjamin stood. “Well, it’s been a little slice of heaven, but I got to get home for lunch. Maman’s having the book society over, so there’s going to be a lot of free booze. See you!” The young man breezed out of the room.  
  
Once alone, Solo allowed his annoyance to wash over his face. He _hated_ it when Angelique tried to pass herself off as an U.N.C.L.E. representative. It always resulted with extra work involving the innocents-- more clean-up, more compensation, more story-weaving. Still, now that he knew Angelique’s modus operandi, he could lay a better trap for her, one that had a good chance of being sprung before she lived up to her current _nom de guerre_. He retrieved his pen communicator, extended the antenna, and opened channel D.  
  
“Channel D is open, Mr. Solo,” responded Lisa Rogers’ crisp voice.  
  
“Hi, Lisa. When my partner checks in, tell him....”


	2. Nothing to Do with Le Cours de Francais

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya agrees to help a young lady, while Angelique makes like Mrs. Robinson.

Kuryakin stood in the middle of the French classroom, young ladies and gentlemen clustered in small groups around him working on a translation assignment. He wandered the inner circumference of the clusters, timing his hmm’s and his uh-huh’s in such a way as to induce the most paranoia in the students’ minds. He actually devoted only a small part of his attention to that task; the bulk of his concentration went toward Miss Pulat and her gang of two (Miss Goossens of Belgium and Miss Mlakar of Bulgaria). The trio whispered intently amongst themselves, leaning so far into each other that Kuryakin worried they might merge into a gigantic teenager ready to stomp through the halls of UNIS as if it were Toyko. He knew they didn’t discuss the assignment; their whisperings were too passionate to be dealing with the nuances of the French language. He didn’t approach them, though, until the other groups started noticing the intensity of their conversation.  
  
He drifted over to the trio of terror, leaning into their conversation as a distraction. “ _Trop defficile, mes amies?_ ”  
  
“ _Mais non, Monsieur Kuryakin!_ ” Suri replied. “Just a discussion on the nuances.” The other girls nodded agreement. Kuryakin started turning back to the cluster center when Suri added _sotto voce_ in schoolgirl Russian, “Help me!”  
  
Illya gave her an incredulant look, then went about the business of supervising all the groups as they worked with varying degrees of vigilance on their assignment. The bell finally rang; as the students filed out, Kuryakin called out, “ _Madamoiselle Pulat, un moment, s’il vous plait._ ”  
  
Suri paused in the doorway, exchanged pointed looks with her friend, and joined Kuryakin by the teacher desk. She chewed on her lower lip, not wanting to meet Illya’s gaze. He sat down behind the desk. She remained standing. He waited for her to speak. After a moment or two or silence, she said, “I really need to get to my next class, Monsieur Kuryakin.”  
  
“Well, you wanted my help... and it has nothing to do with le cors de Francais.”  
  
Suri visibly relaxed. “Oh, Monsieur Kuryakin, I don’t know what to do! I’m being encouraged to do something really serious, and while I like the idea, I just don’t know if it’s the right thing to do. I tried talking with Mitzi about it, but even though she’s Bulgarian, her family’s not high-ranking enough to have a proper understanding of consequences. My boyfriend has started pressuring me about my decision, and, oh-- well, you’re Russian. You told us that your first day. You must have some idea of my dilemma.”  
  
“This is not the time or place to discuss such delicate matters. Let us meet at the automat after school. I will appear to be tutoring you, and you will tell me all.”  
  
“We won’t have much time. My boyfriend is meeting me there at 4:15.”  
  
“We will have time enough, don’t you fret on that.” The bell signalling the start of the next period rang. “Let me write you a hall pass. What’s your next class?”  
  
***  
  
Solo hovered in a doorway down the street from U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. He had spotted a familiar sportscar brazenly parked outside Del Floria’s. Angelique had obviously moved into full gloat mode-- and before he dealt with her, he needed to know what was the full status of the assignment. He pulled out his communicator pen. “Open Channel F.”  
  
“Make it fast,” his partner grumbled. “The third years arrive in about five minutes.”  
  
“What’s the latest?”  
  
“Our girl has doubts, and wants to talk to a neutral party.”  
  
“Neutral party being you.” He glanced down the street; Angelique hadn’t noticed him lurking yet.  
  
“Naturally. The boy’s supposed to meet her at the automat nearest here at 4:15. It’s vital that he’s late.”  
  
“I’ll handle it. Channel F out.” Solo tucked his communicator away, then strode jauntily up the street to Del Floria’s.  
  
Angelique hopped out of her car before he could go in the door. “Hello, handsome,” she called, posing provocatively against the hood. “That bowtie doesn’t do you well. Unless you were wearing a tuxedo with it, of course.”  
  
“I’ve been assured that the bowtie is cool.”  
  
She smirked. “If you say so.”  
  
“Besides....” Solo joined her at the car, placing a hand on each of her hips. “I’m sure you’ve had to wear worse in your job. Flats, pedal pushers, hairnets....”  
  
“Oh, you smooth talker, you.” She stole a kiss, fluttered her eyes, and said coyly, “You know we have it all just about wrapped-up, Napoleon. She’s going, and she’s going today.”  
  
“Darling... if you’re relying on her boyfriend, it’s not going to happen.”  
  
“Oh, but he’s all ours.”  
  
“Then why is he having a liquid lunch?”  
  
Angelique pushed Solo back gently. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“Well, as his counselor, I had a meeting with him this morning.”  
  
“And no doubt put all sorts of strange notions in his head.”  
  
Napoleon gave her his most sincere look. “I played it straight-up, truth. He seemed restless, and said he was going for all the ‘free booze’ at lunch.”  
  
Angelique sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to pick this up later then, won’t we?” Solo shrugged apologetically. “This had better not turn into a wild goose chase, because I will be quite cross with you if it is.”  
  
“I know the rules of our game.”  
  
“See you later, then.” She wrapped him up in a serious hug and kiss, then got back in her car and drove off with a wave and a squealing of tires.  
  
Solo beelined for the agents’ entrance. As he passed through the tailor shop, Del Floria called, “Get yourself to the medical wing pronto.”  
  
“Yeah, I know, I can already feel the effects on my lips....” He ducked into the proper changing booth and turned the coat hook a noticeable click to the left.  
  
***  
  
Angelique checked the mise-en-scene a final time. The apartment-- all chrome and creams and modern furniture-- wasn’t her official residence, of course, just one of several pied-a-terres Thrush kept on retainer (as it were) for those times when the intimacy of a home was called for in the quest for world domination. Still, the open magazine on the coffee table, the scent of recent baking, the plate of chocolate chip cookies resting innocently on the bar, next to the vaguely empty scotch, vodka, and whiskey decanters and soda dispenser-- all of that gave the erroneous impression that she lived there. Should they make it as far as the bedroom, the bras and stockings hanging over the shower curtain in the adjoining bathroom would further give a false positive. All she needed now was the lead actor in the forthcoming scenario.  
  
She paged through the magazine a few moments, growing bored with waiting. The youth of today had absolutely no sense of time. You could tell them be someplace at 3:15 and they wouldn’t show up until at least 3:30, and then would have some kind of cockamamie excuse as to why they were late.  
  
She checked her watch, grimaced at the time, and reached for a cigarette. A knock sounded on the door. She tossed the magazine aside, stood, brushed the wrinkles out of her skirt, and answered the door, every inch the gracious hostess. “Benjamin, do come in.”  
  
“Thanks, Mrs. Robinson.” He obediently followed her inside and over to the bar, eyes widening as he took in the incongruous arrangement of cookies and liquor.  
  
“Help yourself.”  
  
Benjamin took several cookies, placing them on a napkin, and nibbling one. “Very nice.”  
  
Angellique teased, “What, no whiskey?”  
  
“I had a lot of it at lunch.”  
  
“Then have a bit more. Go. Sit. I’ll bring it to you.”  
  
Benjamin planted himself in the middle of the sofa and concentrated on the cookies. He finished them up by the time Angelique brought over a pair of scotch and sodas. She offered him a glass; he crumpled up the napkin, tossed it on the coffee table, and accepted it. She curled up on the couch, feet tucked elegantly under her, and sipped her drink, eyeing him thoughtfully. “I like you, Benjamin.”  
  
“I, er, like you, too, Mrs. Robinson. Why did you summon me? I have to meet Suri in a bit, and--”  
  
“Oh, I just wanted to make sure that everything was going well in that area. I heard rumors, you see.”  
  
“Rumors? What kind of rumors?”  
  
“Something about a liquid lunch?”  
  
“Oh, that. Maman had her book society over, so the booze was flowing freely. Don’t worry, though, I only had a glass or two, wanted to stay sharp for this afternoon.”  
  
“I’m sure you did. Drink up.”  
  
“Isn’t that a little counter-productive to--”  
  
“Do you want to get into Columbia or not?”  
  
“Well-- I should already be there! I can’t help it they’re too stupid to see I don’t have to live up to their standards!”  
  
“Exactly.” Angelique inched a bit closer to Benjamin.  
  
“I’m a goddamn **legacy,** for Pete’s sake! I don’t have to have good grades, or write their stupid essays, or even pass their lousy admissions test to get in! You know how much money my dad’s business makes every year? Millions! **Millions!**. They ought to be begging me to be on campus instead of telling me to--” he made a disgusted face, “--work for it!” He slammed his drink back and held out the glass. “More?” he asked hopefully.  
  
“Oh, I think I have something better than a drink for you.” Angelique took the glass, placed it on the table, and cuddled up to him. Benjamin stiffened for a moment, but relaxed as Angelique began to play with his hair. “I think you don’t need that silly university, Benjamin. I think there are much more exciting, much more glamorous things you could be doing with yourself. In fact, I see great potential in you for my organization.”  
  
“You mean become a spy?”  
  
“A young man of your abilities and attitude could go far.” Her hand drifted down to his crotch, which started saluting the moment she brushed against it. “Do you get my drift?”  
  
“Oh, Mrs. Robinson, you’re seducing me.”  
  
“And we don’t have to go to some seedy motel to consummate it.” She took his hand, pulled him off the sofa, and led him into the bedroom.  
  
***  
  
Illya lurked in the alley adjoining the automat, holding a newspaper up to hide his talking into his pen. “I hope you’re not jealous, Napoleon.”  
  
“Ha, ha. Very funny, Illya, it is to laugh. How many minutes do you want of alone time with the girl? I kinda want to break things up before she fully takes him in, if you get my drift.”  
  
“Unfortunately, I do. I want at least 10 minutes, more if you can manage.”  
  
“I’ll do my best. The automat’s crawling with Thrush operatives, by the way.”  
  
“I suppose that means we’re represented in force, too.”  
  
“This is turning into a pretty big deal.”  
  
“So it seems. Channel F out.” Kuryakin tucked the pen away in his jacket, folded up the newspaper and tucked it into the briefcase at his feet, and entered the automat, the model of a high school teacher. He spotted half a dozen fellow U.N.C.L.E. agents, all looking quite business-like as they picked at various dishes and pretended to read various newspapers. Several other men did the same-- probably Thrush, since he hadn’t seen them in the place before. It was going to be _that_ sort of afternoon, after all-- one filled with gun battle and innocent lives endangered.  
  
He obtained change from one of the black-uniformed cashiers. After helping himself to a piece of cheesecake and a cup of coffee, he chose a table next to a wall. He sat with his back protected-- but with a full view of the rest of the seating area. Deciding he might as well blend in with the crowd, he made a big show of opening up his newspaper.  
  
Almost immediately, agent Mulqueen approached him. “Say, is that the _Times_? I’ll trade you the _Post_ for it?”  
  
Illya refolded his paper and passed it over. “Very well. I was merely re-reading mine.” He claimed the _Post_ , glancing over the front page as the other agent returned to his own seat. He thumbed through the pages, stopping only to read the hastily-scribbled notes in the margin of page 36.  
  
He had barely enough time to digest what he had read before Suri hurried into the automat. She grabbed a cup of hot chocolate and aimed right for his table. As she put the drink down and slid into a chair opposite him, he said, “Get out your French text and your class notebook, and open it to the translation page from class today.”  
  
As she set the stage for a study session, Kuryakin calmly tucked the newspaper away and donned his glasses. Seeing she was “ready,” he pointed out a random paragraph in the text and asked, “ _Et maintenant, Madamoiselle Polat, comment puis-je vous aider?_ ”  
  
“Oh, Monsieur Kuryakin, everyone wants me to defect!”  
  
“Who is ‘everyone’?”  
  
“My friends, my fellow students, my boyfriend. Even my bodyguard has hinted I should think about it.”  
  
“How do you feel about defecting?”  
  
“I do not know. I would very much like to stay in the United States. My uncle-- he’s the Turbakistan Premier, you know-- would like me to study at Oxford or Cambridge. I think I would like to go to an American university.”  
  
“You could still do that without defecting.”  
  
“I don’t see how....”  
  
***  
  
Solo confirmed his back-up squad lurked appropriately in the street below Angelique’s building before he entered the building. He nodded at the bellman, who nodded back in recognition, before taking the elevator up to her floor.  
  
He paused in front of the apartment door, digging a small electronic listening device out of a pocket and placing it quietly against the keyhole. Bending over to hear better, he could make out exactly where Angelique and Benjamin were in their “getting to know each other” process. Smiling to himself slightly-- the boy would be embarrassed by his entry, nothing more-- he exchanged the listening device for a bit of plastic explosive. He quietly blew the lock, gently pushed the door open, and strode inside as if he owned the place. “Hey, Lucy, I’m home!” he called out in a bad Cuban accent.  
  
From the bedroom, Benjamin screeched. Angelique murmured something. A fierce rustling (and accompanying flailing noises) brought a blanket-wrapped Angelique to the bedroom door just as Napoleon stepped over the threshold. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”  
  
“You... you...!” Angelique looked ready to slap him.  
  
Benjamin, however, dropped the pair of trousers he had been holding, and gaped at Solo, completely forgetting he was just in his underwear and a half-buttoned shirt. “M-m-mister Duggar! What--?”  
  
Solo gave the youth a sympathetic look. “Let’s just say that, like the Beach Boys, I get around. Get dressed, Benjamin. It’s time for you to leave.”  
  
“Y-y-yes, sir.” He retrieved his trousers and darted into the bathroom.  
  
“Now, as for you, minx....” Solo devoted his attention now to the Thrush agent. “Whatever are we going to do about you?”  
  
***  
  
“All right, let me make sure I understand,” Kuryakin said. He pointed at Suri’s notebook. “Act like you’re actively writing notes.” The girl nodded and began writing nonsense words in her notebook. “Your schoolmates think defecting is a way to stand up to the ‘system.’ Your friends think that defecting is romantic, because of why Svetlana Alliluyeva defected last year. And your boyfriend wants you to defect so you can be with him.” Suri nodded. “That’s a great deal of pressure.”  
  
“I know! What can I do about it?”  
  
“Let’s play devil’s advocate for a moment. What would happen if you defected?”  
  
“I’d get to live my life in peace.”  
  
“And in poverty, most likely. You’d never be able to return to Turbakistan.”  
  
“I wouldn’t want to. If I defected, my parents would be recalled, and probably jailed. My uncle would probably be overthrown. A number of his generals want to become closer aligned with the Soviet Union. Power grabbers, the lot of them. Not that my uncle is much better, of course-- but at least he cares about his people.”  
  
Kuryakin nodded. “Have you ever considered playing the system?” Suri looked up at him pointedly. “If one were to work within the rules of the system, he or she might be better to affect change from within than if one were to simply leave the system.”  
  
“Is that what you’re doing?”  
  
“It would be much more beneficial to both you and your family were you to not defect. And keeping your uncle in place by not defecting would benefit your people greatly. Sometimes the path of least resistance is the most powerful path one can take.”  
  
Suri paused in her pantomime writing. A far-away expression brushed across her face. Kuryakin waited patiently for the penny to drop.  
  
***  
  
“I don’t think you’re going to do anything at all with me, Napoleon,” Angelique purred. “At least not yet.” She dropped the blanket, revealing both her underwear and a gun.  
  
“And yet you always complain about my calling your methods crude.” Solo obligingly put his hands up.  
  
“I wouldn’t complain so much if you would remember the ‘but effective’ part after the ‘crude.’” She raised her voice. “Benjamin, get in here. I need your help.” She kept both eyes on Solo; when she heard Benjamin’s soft steps into the room, she said in quite a reasonable tone, “Benjamin, come here and keep your Mr. Duggar covered with my gun. I need to send for reinforcements.”  
  
Benjamin warily approached them both. Angelique nudged him until he faced Solo, then stepped behind him. She reached around him to press the gun in his hands. “You two keep yourselves happy. I’m going to slip into something more comfortable, then call my reinforcements. My agents are all over the place.”  
  
“That’s right,” Solo agreed, “U.N.C.L.E. agents surround the building.”  
  
“And there’s no hope for escape. Now if you’ll forgive me, gentlemen?” Angelique, still keeping her eyes on Solo, inched back to the bed, found her sheath and shoes with only minor effort, and retreated into the bathroom. “Don’t listen to anything he says, Benjamin,” she warned before shutting the door.  
  
Benjamin and Solo eyed each other warily for a moment. “Ah... Benjamin... how about being reasonable and putting that gun down?”  
  
The young man shook his head. “No way. If Mrs. Robinson wants you covered, you’re covered.”  
  
“Wow. Pussy-whipped and you haven’t even had her yet.”  
  
“It’s not like that at all,” Benjamin growled. “She’s a top U.N.C.L.E. agent, and you’re not. You’re obviously evil.”  
  
“Oh, yes, obviously. Tell me one thing, though, Benjamin. Why would an U.N.C.L.E. agent need to seduce you to get you to cooperate?”  
  
“Maybe I seduced her.”  
  
“And I’m supposed to believe that.”  
  
Benjamin glared at him. “Besides, good spies have sex all the time during missions. I’ve seen enough James Bond films to know that! Now, shut up, or I’ll have to find out the hard way if I can really shoot this thing.”  
  
Realizing they had reached an impasse, Solo resigned himself to waiting.


	3. Pear-Shaped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solo and Kuryakin attempt to snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory... or so they pretend.

“I think you’re right, Mr. Kuryakin. It would be best if I did not defect, but worked to change things for the better within the system as it currently exists.”  
  
“A wise--” Kuryakin spotted a suspicious flurry of hand and head signals passing back and forth between both U.N.C.L.E. agents and their Thrush counterparts. “Suri, whatever happens in the next few minutes, I want you to stay as close to me as possible.”  
  
“What--?”  
  
A Thrush agent in the middle of the room jumped to his feet, allowing his chair to fall backwards and hit the ground with a resounding clunk.  
  
“Pack up your school things, Suri. We’re going to leave.”  
  
U.N.C.L.E. and Thrush agents throughout the room stood, actively searching for their nearest opponent.  
  
“Should I be scared, Monsieur Kuryakin?”  
  
“No, not yet.”  
  
Suri stuffed her book and notes in her bag and zipped them up.  
  
A wave of further hand movements passed amongst the two sides. As if by mutual agreement, Mr. Mulqueen took a swing at a Thrush agent the exact same moment said agent swung at him. The room erupted into a massive fist fight, sending the innocent patrons scurrying out the front doors, and causing the employees working the front end to find immovable objects for shields.  
  
Kuryakin motioned Suri to stand. “Let us exit through the back door, Madamoiselle.”  
  
Suri, wide-eyed but compliant, slung her book bag over her shoulder and took Kuryakin’s offered hand. The Russian had chosen their table with care; they completely avoided the fight as they slipped into the kitchen.  
  
A semi-circle of Thrush agents, weapons drawn, awaited them. “Far enough,” the squadron leader chirped. “You’re both coming with us.”  
  
“Why?” Kuryakin asked, mustering every ounce of false innocence he could dredge up.  
  
“Because we’re making sure that the chick defects tonight. Boys?”  
  
A quartet of agents stepped forward, holstering their weapons to better handcuff their captives.  
  
“Should I be afraid now?” Suri wondered.  
  
“Yes, I should think so,” Kuryakin agreed.  
  
***  
  
“It’s taking an awfully long time for Angelique to get dressed,” Solo commented after several minutes.  
  
“Angelique? Is that her first name? It really suits her.”  
  
“You think so?”  
  
“Oh, sure-- you get that interplay between having such a good name and such a naughty rep. Gonna appeal to many a guy.”  
  
“Well, she _is_ the village bicycle.”  
  
“Isn’t that required for a spy?”  
  
Solo shrugged. “Well, it helps.” He glanced suddenly over at the bathroom door. “Speaking of rides....”  
  
Benjamin glanced at the door, too. Napoleon used the distraction to grab the gun and push the boy onto the bed. Benjamin gasped at the suddenness of the tables being turned.  
  
“Don’t worry, Benjamin, I’m one of the good guys.” Still keeping the gun trained on the young man, he reached for his I.D. “I’m Napoleon Solo, with the actual U.N.C.L.E. Angelique is a top Thrush agent who likes to pretend she’s on the side of good.”  
  
“What’s this all about?”  
  
“It’s about Thrush wanting Suri Polat to defect, so they can install their own puppet dictator in Turbakistan before the Soviets can.”  
  
“Politics is stupid, you know?”  
  
“I know.” Solo raised his voice. “What’s taking you so long, Angelique? Angelique?” He frowned. “She did it again.”  
  
“Did what?”  
  
Solo didn’t answer. Instead, keeping an eye and the gun on Benjamin, he kicked open the bathroom door. The room was empty; the open window let in the sounds of a fight below. He sighed. “Pear-shaped.”  
  
“As in ‘it’s all gone pear-shaped’?”  
  
“Yep. Truce?”  
  
“Truce.”  
  
“Good.” He tucked the gun in a spare jacket pocket as his pen rang. “Sorry about that,” he said as he opened the channel. “Solo here.”  
  
“Napoleon, you’re not going to like this,” Lisa Rogers reported. “There’s been a fisticuffs at the automat, and Mr. Kuryakin and Miss Pulat have been captured by Thrush.”  
  
“Any idea of the hideout?”  
  
“Sorry, Napoleon-- those birdies that didn’t fly away took the coward’s way out.”  
  
“Damn. Well, thanks for letting me know, Lisa. Let me know if any news comes in. We really need a plan ‘B’ at this point. Channel D out.” He put the communicator away.  
  
“Um, Mr. Dugg-- Mr. Solo, I might have an idea,” Benjamin offered.  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Well, Mrs. Robinson-- Angelique-- took me to this office place when she first recruited me. It looked all official and everything. Really helped convince me to join up with her.”  
  
“Where was it?”  
  
“Um... I don’t know the address.” At Solo’s disappointed face, he added, “But I can probably find it. Especially if we left from school. And school’s just a couple blocks away from here.”  
  
“All right, Macduff-- lead on.” Solo gestured the young man out of the room.  
  
***  
  
Suri and Illya had been tied together to a chair, a pair of gunmen left in the featureless, windowless room to assure that the U.N.C.L.E. agent wouldn’t make use of any of his escape techniques. Since no interrogations had been suggested, let alone carried out, Kuryakin suspected that the underlings awaited the big cheese before beginning the “fun.” He didn’t mind waiting-- every moment that passed gave his partner another chance to find them before anything really serious happened to either of them.  
  
“Monsieur Kuryakin, I’m scared.”  
  
“I know, Madamoiselle Polat. Believe me when I tell you, as long as we’re alive and relatively unhurt, we will get out of this. I’ve had some experience with Thrush, you see.”  
  
“You’re not just a French teacher, then, are you?”  
  
“I’m with the U.N.C.L.E.”  
  
“I’ve heard of that.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “We should be all right, then.”  
  
“I hope so.”  
  
“Hey, you two,” ordered the head goon, “Keep your traps shut!”  
  
“Oh, let them talk,” Angelique admonished as she swept into the room. “It amuses me so.”  
  
Kuryakin rolled his eyes. “And I’m supposed to be trembling with fear upon your entrance.”  
  
“Yes, you are, actually.” She approached him, caressing his chin with a gloved hand. “You’re certainly not impressed with me as a person.”  
  
“Well, you _do_ play for the other side. And you _do_ play an awful game of cat-and-mouse with my partner.”  
  
“Darling, are you jealous?” Angelique seemed genuinely touched. “You just have to say the word, and I’ll be yours in a heartbeat. I’ve always had a thing for blonds.”  
  
“Please, Madam, what are you going to do with us?” Suri asked.  
  
Angelique circled around to the girl, anger marring her artificially perfect features. “First of all, I’m not a ‘madam,’ I’m a ‘madamoiselle.’”  
  
“Who’s on the shelf,” Illya tossed in, earning himself a smack to the head.  
  
“Secondly, it’s very simple: you will either pen a letter declaring you’re defecting from Turbakistan, or I will have you eliminated.”  
  
Suri gasped. Kuryakin commented, “Not very cat-and-mouse of you, Angelique.”  
  
“The ‘madam’ crack has put me in a bad mood. I want this affair over with, so I can get back to dealing with more mature people.”  
  
“What if I don’t write the letter?” Suri asked. “How quickly will you kill me?”  
  
Angelique gave one of her cat-licking-the-cream grins. “Well, darling, it’s going to take some time. I want to make sure you have every opportunity to do the right thing, after all. We’ll torture Mr. Kuryakin, simply enough. Perhaps the Chinese water torture, perhaps systematically breaking all his fingers, perhaps beating him to a pulp. As a trained agent, it will take quite some time to break him. And you’ll get to watch every bit of it. Unless you write a letter, of course.”  
  
“You are a monster.”  
  
“No, I’m practical. Thrush wants to rule the world, after all, and we’re going to do it one country at a time. Once Turbakistan falls under our influence, we’ll gain another dozen Balkan states within a year. From there, the Soviet Union itself will-- what the hell?”  
  
Kuryakin noticed the smell the same time Angelique did. The sickly sweet scent of knock-out gas permeated the room. As he lost consciousness, the Russian hoped that it was his side doing the knocking-out.  
  
***  
Solo headed the charge into the room, gun drawn. His team of agents fanned out around the room, prodding the unconscious Thrush agents gingerly with their feet. “Seems they’re still out for the count,” agent Gardner concluded.  
  
“Great.” Solo tucked his gun away; his team followed his example. Raising his voice, he called out, “Okay, Benjamin, come on in.”  
  
The young man stepped into the room and took in the scene. “Wow! That stuff was really effective! And here I thought you spy guys grooved on the violence inherent in the system.”  
  
“Sometimes it’s much better to be non-violent to get the job done.”  
  
“Gee, that’s refreshing.” He hung by the door, and let the trained agents secure the Thrush agents and untie Kuryakin and Suri. “They’re gonna be okay, right?”  
  
“Oh, sure, Benjamin, they’ll be fine. Maybe a a headache, that’s all.” Solo turned to Gardner. “Gerald, arrange for transport for these goons. And be careful with the lady.”  
  
“What lady? Unless you mean Miss Polat here....”  
  
Napoleon frowned, did a quick assessment of the captured group, and groaned. “She did it again.” He examined the room for air vents; he found one with its cover off. Taking a closer look, he found a small, personal air tank abandoned on the chair beneath it. “Well, if anything, she’s resourceful. Okay, men, let’s get everyone _else_ back to HQ.”  
  
***  
Illya awoke in the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary with a pounding headache and an oxygen mask on his face. Fortunately, a quick injection from Doctor Crusher cleared his brain and allowed him to join his partner, the young couple, and his boss in Waverly’s office. As he slid into the empty seat on his partner’s right, he noticed Suri’s father, the U.N. Ambassador from Turbakistan, also joined them. “-- and this is the young man you were meeting with in secret?”  
  
“Oh, papa, it wasn’t secret. Nart knew all about it. It was the only way I could get him to let me do it.”  
  
“Sneaking around like that... not the best position to put your bodyguard in. Or yourself.”  
  
“Sorry, papa.”  
  
“I’m sorry, too, sir,” Benjamin added. “I had no idea Suri was sneaking. It won’t happen again. That is... if she still wants to see me.”  
  
Suri gave him a hard look. “I thought it would be the other way around. Apparently you were seeing me and trying to get me to defect just so you could get into Columbia University.”  
  
Benjamin had the grace to look sheepish. “Yeah, okay, I did that. But... you know what? I like you on your own merits, Suri.”  
  
“Well, I like you, too, Ben, but I have to think about what has happened today a great deal before I decide whether I really want to see you again. Papa, can we go now?”  
  
Ambassador Polat looked at Waverly. Waverly nodded. Polat took his daughter’s hand. “Let’s go home, _yavrum._ ” Father and daughter made for the door. As the door slid open, Polat turned back to the group. “Thank you so much for all you’ve done for us. Not just for my family personally, but all of Turbakistan.”   
  
“Our pleasure, Ambassador,” Waverly said.  
  
Suri gave everyone a final wave, then joined her father in leaving the room.   
  
The agents’ attention turned to Benjamin. “As for you, young man....” Waverly began.  
  
“I guess I really should be working on my grades to get into Columbia,” Benjamin concluded.  
  
“Indeed you should.”  
  
Solo added, “Look at it this way-- if it’s _really_ so easy for you, then you only have to put in like 10% more effort to do outstanding work. Look at your professors’ comments, Benjamin. You’re failing because you’re not doing the work, not because you’re not passing the tests.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess.” Benjamin didn’t sound too enthused.  
  
“Not the end of the world.”  
  
Waverly buzzed for his secretary. When Lisa arrived, he said, “Miss Rogers, would you see Mr. Harper out?”  
  
“Of course, Mr. Waverly. This way, please.” Lisa ushered Benjamin out of the room.  
  
Waverly turned back to his agents, but found himself interrupted by his communications board. He flipped the switch. “Yes?”  
  
“Angelique seems to be waiting outside Del Floria’s _again_ , sir.”  
  
“Thank you, Miss Wills. Let’s leave her be for the moment.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
Waverly turned the channel off and gave his senior agent a pointed look. “Well, Mr Solo?”  
  
Napoleon clearly wasn’t happy with the news. “Well, Mr. Waverly, she can just stew there. I’m not in the mood to deal with her.”  
  
Waverly frowned. “Very well, then. Mr. Kuryakin?”  
  
Illya started. “Me, sir?”  
  
“Could you do something about that, er, pest downstairs?”  
  
“Yeah, Illya, please?” Solo added.  
  
If looks could kill, his partner would be a corpse at that moment. “Very well.”  
  
***  
  
Angelique’s eyes widened with surprise when she saw the Russian exit Del Floria’s and head directly for her car. Fortunately, she had sunglasses on, so she was able to retain her aura of coolness. She started to get out of the car; Illya waved her back. “You’re not staying long enough for that,” he commanded.  
  
She pouted. “You really know how to take the fun out of things.”  
  
“You’re in the dog house, you know.”  
  
“ _I’m_ in the dog house? Excuse me? Napoleon’s the one who interrupted my mission and put me in bad graces with my superiors. He should make it up to me.”  
  
Kuryakin raised an eyebrow. “Really? Then I’m sure he would love to do that... tonight... at the El Morocco, about 9 o’clock.”  
  
“El Morocco?” Angelique wrinkled her nose. “Rather old-fashioned, don’t you think?”  
  
“Well, it befits your age, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Hmph.” She turned the car on, gave Kuryakin a dirty glare, and gunned it.   
  
Illya jumped out of the way, and watched as she peeled around a corner. Smiling to himself, he went back into headquarters. Sometimes it was the little things that made his vocation so rewarding.


End file.
